


Between the lines

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 20th Century, F/F, Genderbending, Historical Hetalia, UST, Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16149059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: America keeps staring at the phone, trying to think of what to say. How to tell England what she really wants- even if she’s not so sure what that is herself.





	Between the lines

 

America’s hand hangs poised above the dial on the phone, unpainted nails just above the black rim of the telephone’s mouthpiece.

She blinks, trying to think of what to say, who to call.

                She’d already phoned Canada with her announcement, and Maddie had just sort of sighed with a resigned ‘Congratulations, America.’ But then America had mentioned some stuff about new economic policy and cracked a joke before she had to hang up, and Maddie had seemed happier.

She’d considered calling Japan, fingers hanging in the air for just a few brief seconds, but then she’d pulled away like the ringer was a hot iron. She didn’t know what her bosses might say. She doesn’t know what she’d say, actually, so it was probably for the best.

She ran through everyone she could tell, put it up to a list of versus everyone she wanted to tell.

She’d told France, who had given her and ecstatic response and promised to talk to her about it later, when phone bills weren’t so expensive. But right at the end of the phone call she’d given out this sort of sad sigh sound, and America hadn’t had the courage to ask her about it. At least not over the phone.

                She’d thought long and hard about it, but the only person that came to mind when she thought about it was, well, uh.

England.

She stares at her fingernails, chewed and impossible to manage, callused palms rough with calices. England had always told her they made her look improper, that she shouldn’t be doing so much work, it made her look too dark from too much time in the fields and her body too strong from lifting heavy objects, made her stronger than she should be, even more unnaturally strong than she already was.

                She bit her tongue, as she’d done in those past times.

She knew England had already gotten the vote for women two years ago; although it wasn’t entirely there, you had to be older, own land or something. She’d kind of forgotten because she’d been too intent on getting her girls rights. But she hadn’t forgotten what that would mean, listening to England goading about how _for all her freedom, good ol’ tyrant England gave her girls the right to vote first,_ or hearing that annoying note of condescension in her voice.

Because England, she reminded herself, didn’t care. No matter if America joined the war and saved her and France’s useless asses from getting beat into the back of a trench by Germany and the Ottomans and Austria-Hungary, England would still act like America was useless, was unimportant, was less than her-

Her hand slammed down on the handle of the phone, shaking the table with force, hard enough a curl of her hair shook out of its place. The loose lock hung in front of her eyes, cutting her vision in half.

                Why was she even thinking of calling England? All the damned fucking Brit would say was that anything America could do she’d already done, that she was just a carbon copy but with a worse accent, that America didn’t _deserve_ –

_Your girls got more rights than hers, right? And besides, it’s not like any of that garbage is actually true. You’ve done plenty of things England hasn’t, you’ve gotten rid of the monarchy, you have a way better constitution than her, you never went on a three hundred-year long crusade to make the entire world your personal money-printing factory-_

She takes in a breath, fixing a smile to her face.

_You can do this. Don’t worry. It’s England, for God’s sake._

He hands tremble a bit as she picks up the handle of the telephone, locking the edge of her finger into the dial and trying to place it. _Just England._ So why does Just England keep making her heart jump with nervousness?

 _Just type the number._ She thinks, because all aside, she does want to tell England that she’s finally given her girls the right to vote like they deserve. And some part of her even longs to hear the lilt of England’s accent, even if it’s saying condescending and stupid and-

 _I want to talk to her,_ she thinks as she stares out the window, curtain pushed aside to reveals the glimmering sun outside, bright and pretty and just rising.

It’s a new day.

                She steels herself, thinking. _I want to talk to her._

What does she even want to say?

She runs over the thoughts in her head, trying to put them into and order, an exercise which she’s unused to. Usually when she had something so all-consuming on her mind, she would just talk to someone fight or shop until it kind of left.

_Hi England. It’s me… America, you know? I was calling to- uh, tell you that I got the vote, bitch! And i-_

Nope, not working. Too nervous. England would laugh and hang up before America could get the second syllable out.

 _How’s it going, England? Guess who just got the vote, with more rights than you, you fucking Brit? Me, that’s who!_ She can perfectly picture it the nervous, high-pitched arrogant laugh she’d give after that. She can also perfectly picture England hanging up on her.

Picture her long tied up hair pulled back into a bun, green eyes shining in the fading light of the London sun (it was getting dark there now, wasn’t it? Maybe it was just afternoon), tried to picture the clothes she might wear but couldn’t, but it’d probably be something long and kind of flowery, or maybe it’d be simple, but it’s probably press against her hips when she cocked a hand on her hip and raised her eyebrows and said something diminutive about America, would probably be tight and lacy over her chest-

America widened her eyes at that, shaking her head and biting her lip.

_Hey England, it’s America. So you know how I got the vote, right? Well, I’ve been thinking lately, and I-_

Fuck. She couldn’t do this, she swore under her breath as her hand paused over the dial. What was the dial number of Ten Downing Street? (God knew that’d be where England was, she never stopped working, always bent over one paper or another, gaze concentrated and lips pursed, always going on about how there was work to be done)

                Scrambling through her papers, she tried something else.

_Okay, okay, just try to think about England in some way other than this …something different, because you can’t really- well you could, you’re America, you’re awesome, you can do anything, - but still, imagine England as somehow different._

_Okay, maybe if she… had brown hair?_ Nope, that did nothing but make the image of her and France fighting slightly more confusing. _Uh… what about if she was wearing different clothes? Like, the new stuff they’re strutting out on the streets at nightclubs these days-_

She swallowed. Hard. Shot the image immediately out of her mind.

That wasn’t going to work.

 _Uh… okay, just imagine England’s a guy or something. That’ll make sticking it in her- his- face about the vote, easier, right? Because then he wouldn’t like, think it was big deal, right?_ She tells herself, shutting her eyelids for a second to try and picture it.

_And after a few seconds of stuttering through bouts of laughter, she can kind of picture it. Same dark, stupid eyebrows that take up more of her- his, oops- face than they really should, same blond hair and perpetually downturned lips and look of condescension, same way the light hits the green of her eyes on a really pretty morning –_

She picks up the dusty volume under her desk that reads _English Parliamentary Systems,_ brushing her fingers of dust and pulling it to sit atop the wood of her table.

 She tries to picture talking to him, the version of England in her mind’s eye.

_Hey old man! How’s it going? Just kidding, don’t care. Guess who got the women’s vote today? And not your pansy ass 30-year-olds-and-widows only version, the wholesome awesome American freedom kind! How’s that, jerk?_

It kind of works, she thinks, running through the long thick tome in search of something to tell her how to get a hold of England.

And she’s about to call up England- the real England, that is, when-

_England! So I got the vote the other day, and I there’s something I always wanted to tell you. You know, how I, kind of like, y’know. I’ve always thought of you as, sort of, imp-_

She stops herself right there, not knowing precisely what she wants to say, what she was about to say, or why it came to her when thinking of England- _differently._

                _So I uh-_

_I got the vote, England! And my girls worked really hard for it and we got it and we have full rights now, isn’t that awesome! Do you want to hang out for celebrations-_

America sighs. This isn’t helping. Nothing is fucking helping, and she can’t even find the stupid English parliamentary system’s number, and who even knows what time it is in London by now. England will probably just think she’s calling up about war debt again.

But she doesn’t really want to-

She sighs, leaning her head against the wood of the table. Drops her hand from the air above the telephone, unable to form words.

England didn’t care for her as anything but a stupid ex-colony, England thought she was childish, England England England,-

Fine. If that was how it was, then she’d prove England wrong.

                She picks up the phone, fingers clenching on the black of the handle as her eyes skim over the superbly long-when-it-really-does-not-need-to-be book, finally finding the code for London.

She dials it, looping her finger into the circles and making little swoops as she dials.

She puts the phone to her ear, breath hitching a bit as she waits.

It rings.

It rings.

She bits her lower lip, chewing on it as she stares out the window. She’s definitely not nervous.

It rings.

Nope, not at all.

A voice answers, breathless and slightly annoyed “What is it?”

“England!” America said, unable to quell the weird feeling that bubbled up in her chest at hearing England’s voice. It felt like a long time.

_Not really, though, she can still see it in her mind’s eye, picture England with a gun in her hand, kneeling in the trenches and yelling at America, hard glint in her eyes, stiff shoulders and determined set of her gun and dirt on her cheeks that one time she smiled-_

                “America.” England’s response is much more tamed than hers, tired and probably presuming the worst, but America doesn’t think she imagines the way England’s voice tilts up at the end of her name.

“Yeah. Uh-“ She drums her fingers against the table, watching light catch on the edges of her nails, shiny and reflective

“-What is it, girl?” England says, probably holding back a sigh. England’s always got three thousand things to do.

“I…” _Why is she stumbling for words?_

“I got the women’s vote, England!” She says, trying to queue up the excitement that had come standing outside the parliament, finally, finally, getting that bill in.

                There’s a pause, where she thinks she succeeds.

“Oh.” England says, very softly. “That’s… good.”

“And it wasn’t even just a limited version like yours, where y’know, your girl had to be thirty you’re your boys only had to be twenty one to vote! I got it so they can vote at the same age! Isn’t that awesome?” She asks, feeling her heart re-flood with that excitement, hearing England’s voice come through the speaker again, even if it doesn’t come out like she wanted to, sticking it to England and bragging.

                “That’s wonderful, America.” England responds with, and almost sounds like she means it, and America can’t bite back her smile.

“…But then I do need to get back to work,” England’s saying, and America notices she’d kind of lost the train of conversation, staring out the window with a smile.

“But. Uh.” England pauses, and America’s heart kind of pounds, although she hasn’t done anything taxing in the last while.

“Congratulations, America. I’m…” England pauses, and America doesn’t add _proud of you_ at the end of that in her mind, definitively doesn’t, because-

“Happy for you.” It’s more than America could ask for.

She exhales, forcing her smile wider and her tone calm.

“Uh. Thanks. England. I’ll- I guess I’ll see you around, right?”

“-Yes. I shall see you soon too, America.” England says, and then hangs up.

The silence rings in her mind, and her heart pounds in her chest, along with some thought of _maybe maybe maybe_ over and over for reasons America can’t for the life of her define.

So she doesn’t, because it probably doesn’t matter anyways.

And she sets down the phone, and almost kind of maybe smiles.

For real this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> -Women in the US got the right to vote in 1920, women in Canada 1919, women in France 1945, and women in Great Britain 1918, although the law didn't put them on equal footing with men until 1928.


End file.
